


Tangle the Track

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Comeplay, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Sex Toys, Sub Dean, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith/2014!Cas, your basic romcom stuff, if you'll believe it! Written for fun, and inspired by a <i>lot</i> of posts on tumblr. Ongoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The way he asked, it wasn’t even really a question.

Cas – the guy who’d been criticising his form for the last hour – untangled his legs from around his head, casual as you please, and rose fluidly to his feet. He leaned his weight on one hip – looked Dean up and down. It can’t have been a pretty picture; Dean was flushed, sweaty, crammed into yoga pants he’d accidentally shrunk in the wash, and positively _bleeding_ humiliation, having proven himself completely inflexible the entire session.

But still, Cas looked him up and down, turned those big eyes on him, and said, “Do you want to get a drink?”

Still half-agape from watching him bend himself into a pretzel, Dean didn’t think his mouth was _capable_ of forming the word ‘no’.

It was pretty typical of Dean – drinks, getting to know each other. Cas had been his yoga instructor for six weeks and Dean had been salivating over his dick for exactly as long, so going on a _date_ with him was nerve-wracking, but he figured he’d already embarrassed himself about as much as he could manage, that day; the only way to go was up.

They did go up, actually – up the steps to the bar, out into the street, slightly tipsy; then up the elevator to his apartment for another drink, for coffee, for _something –_ in hindsight, Dean couldn’t remember exactly what. They stood awkwardly beside each other in the elevator, looking about as similar as water and oil, respectively; Cas in his gym clothes, ringed with sweat at the armpits; Dean in what he’d worn to work, yoga pants crammed as far down in his bag as they’d go.

Cas whistled when he saw the apartment, just like he was supposed to. Every square foot was spotlessly clean, thank _god,_ and he let Cas wander around while he dropped his gym bag by the door, feeling weirdly exposed by Cas’ interest.

Cas said he liked it like he was telling a joke; not wanting to read into that too deeply, Dean offered him a whisky. Then a second, then another, then a cigarette on the balcony, leaning their forearms on the railings, Dean babbling uncontrollably about how he _never usually smokes, and even then, it’s always a menthol_ ; Cas laughing so hard he was throwing his head back, blowing long plumes of grey into the sky above him.  

Cas kissed him on the balcony, shotgunned him the smoke a little, muttered something about how they would taste like shit in the morning. Dean let the word _morning_ flow through his head, tag the back of his neck, make the hair prickle and stand. It was cold outside, air brittle, wind picking up the closer it got to total darkness. The view was beautiful – Dean had made sure of that when he bought the fucking place – but Cas seemed more interested in trying to crack his head open against the glass doors behind them; he walked Dean back, hands wide, persuasive; opened his mouth on Dean’s, ungentle, and Dean gasped like a fucking idiot, drunk on anticipation and, to be perfectly honest, a significant amount of alcohol as well. He jerked back – the back of his head glanced off the window, stinging – and Cas just laughed into his mouth, muttered, “Sorry.”

The wind picked up – Cas pressed closer, to keep warmer or to press his cock against Dean’s hip, he didn’t exactly know; he was reminded of a poem he read once, something about the stars _whirring,_ and looking up, in a haze, briefly pulled from Cas’ mouth, he thought that he understood. The sky seemed to move, hesitant and brilliant and large.

They got inside eventually, shivering; Cas wouldn’t let him go, said no to another drink, bit him gently and breathed in deep against Dean’s neck when Dean made a soft, damp noise of surprise.

They pulled, pushed each other to the couch; he pressed himself against Dean’s chest, against his neck, as he worked him out of his pants. Spat on his hand, pushed his already wet fingers filthily into Dean’s mouth. He pulled off his pants, sat astride Dean, looked down at Dean’s cock, pressed flushed and wet between them. Taking hold of it, getting it wetter with his dripping hand, he slotted it between his legs and ground against him like that; Dean’s cock riding in between his thighs, trailing wet along the skin behind his balls, Cas clenching his muscles, rocking back and forth, fisting his own cock, tangling a hand in Dean’s hair and tugging, just lightly, as he came.

He dripped over Dean’s belly; scooped it up in two of his fingers and smeared a wet thumb against Dean’s mouth, making him gasp and try to move, pinned by the solid weight of Cas’ thighs. He breathed in – his head swam, Cas’ legs flexed around him; the world seemed to tip and sway. He gritted his teeth, bit his own lip, fucking _howled,_ writhing, and Cas sat atop him the whole time, voice a soft murmur above him, hands tracing his brow and his cheeks with delicate reverence, swiping come through his eyebrow, across his forehead, like a minister with oil.

Dean flopped back against the couch – Cas sat in the darkness, lit from behind by the halogen spotlights in the kitchen, and he reached between them to palm Dean’s softening cock with a hand, before Dean whined and mumbled for him to stop.

“Stay over,” he blurted, overwhelmed, and Cas smiled easily; sat back on Dean’s knees.

“Perfect.”

\---

“Do you mind if I smoke in here?”

“Outside.”

They fell asleep on the couch together, but Dean had roused himself at about five; pushed them off the couch, thanking god and all his angels that leather is pretty wipe-clean, and woken up in bed, hours later, with his face smushed against the pillow. Cas was in the doorway, holding an unlit cigarette in his hand.

“Okay. You wanna come outside with me?”

“I only smoke when I’m drunk.”

Cas nodded neutrally and wandered off; Dean could hear the soles of his feet sticking to the wooden floors on his way across the apartment.

He curled against the sheets; freshly laundered, they only barely stank of booze – his head hurt. He didn’t think he’d washed his face, actually, and that was the thought that truly pushed him out of bed and into the ensuite,

He splashed his face with cold water – washed with this apricot scrub thing he’d been trying out, scrabbled at his hair like it would make a dot of fucking difference. There was a relative stranger in his apartment, wandering around; a relative stranger who had kissed Dean so thoroughly he actually didn’t know if he could manage another one. He jumped in the shower, just to sluice himself off a little; got out again and spent a little too long trying to pick a t-shirt, wary of how things might change between them in the light of day.

He made coffee with the maker he’d bought the week before; it functioned on little individual-serving sachets, cappuccinos and espressos and even a caramel latte, should he ever want to try one (he didn’t). He made a medium roast and took it outside in one of his large, white cups, bought expressly for that purpose.

 Cas was leaning on the balcony rail like he had been the night before, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Dean tried to be as quiet as possible when he shuffled through the glass door, braced by the wind outside, wondering if he’d need to clean the door after being pressed against it last night.

“You want a coffee?” he asked, as he slid into one of the glass chairs on the balcony, wincing when the cold surface touched his skin. He put his mug on the matching glass table; looked at Cas, who was turned towards the skyline, hair ruffling in waves around his head.

“More of a tea drinker.”

“I don’t have any tea. I could run out and get some?”

Cas turned and shot him a funny, bewildered little smile. “It’s okay.”

They sat in the quiet, morning seeming sparse compared to the close night, just a few hours ago. On the couch he’d woken with Cas against his chest, sandwiched between Dean and the back of the couch; whatever he had felt, there wasn’t really a name for it. Fear and satisfaction, both.  

“Do you want me to leave?” Cas asked him, not seeming to really mind either way; Dean looked at him and shook his head.

“No, you’re good.”

“I have to teach a class at noon.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

Cas stubbed his cigarette out on the railing – Dean almost objected until he saw the five or six butts from the night before, littered all over the balcony. He swallowed, instead; reminded himself to behave. Cas turned against the railing and looked at him, hands dug in the pockets of his pants. “I want to see you again.”

“Yeah! Yeah, me too.”

“Tomorrow?”

Dean had been about to get out his fucking _schedule;_ he blinked. “I have work in the morning.”

Cas looked at him blankly. “Is that a yes?”

“Um. Yeah, if we don’t stay up too late.”

Cas laughed like he was joking and took the step between them – leaned down, over Dean’s coffee, and kissed him with both hands on the side of his face. He lingered after, smile playing around his mouth. He tasted like ash and the sweet, sickly aftertaste of booze; his stubble scraped Dean’s upper lip.  

“Do you want a shower?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Dean didn’t say ‘but, you’re filthy’, or ‘but you’re just about to go to work’ – he bit his tongue, nodded, smiled. “I don’t have anything for breakfast,” he murmured, and Cas grinned wide.

“Great. I think we’ve got time for what I was planning instead,” and he laid a pointed kiss against the hollow of Dean’s throat; against his collarbone, his stomach through his shirt, and down.

Dean fumbled his coffee – put it down before he split the whole fucking thing over Cas’ head and his cock, which Cas was mouthing at through his pyjama pants.

Exhausted, dreamlike, he sat in the cold seat on his balcony while Cas sucked him off through his pants; he nosed enthusiastically between Dean’s legs, breathing with his mouth open over Dean’s clothed cock, getting the fabric so wet with his spit that it stuck around the outline of his cock. He buried his face in Dean’s crotch; held him by the knees, murmured gratefully when Dean moved his hands to grip his thighs instead, tighter.

Cas brushed at him, lapped at him with nose and lips and tongue; bit him softly on his inner thigh, pressed open mouthed kisses against his balls, never taking him out of his pants. He looked up at Dean just when he was fucking _trembling –_ heels digging into the floor beneath him, hands clenched tightly on the metal armrests of the chair, and why the _fuck_ didn’t he own any comfortable fucking furniture – and then nudged down the waistband of his pants with his teeth, and sucked, just gently, on the tip of Dean’s naked cock.

He made an embarrassing noise and just let go – no warning, no politeness, no apology. Came all over Cas’ face; in flecks on his cheeks, over his lips, dripping from the underside of his chin. He threw his head back and then gathered himself as quickly as he could, apologising – using his hands, though he was loath, to wipe it away.

Cas looked at him and laughed, big and wide, eyes crinkling – he pushed himself up from his knees, making a noise of exertion, and climbed into Dean’s lap to kiss him. “You’re really great,” he said, apropos of nothing, and Dean, mortified, just blushed horridly and tried to wipe a fleck of come from the corner of Cas’ mouth. Cas caught his hand.

“Don’t worry about it.” He dipped, kissed Dean, and Dean fought the urge to recoil in horror. Cas was hard – he could feel it in his lap, warm and pressing – but when he reached down to reciprocate, Cas just pushed their noses together, shaking his head.

“I like to leave it,” he said, explaining nothing, but Dean understood enough to leave him be.

When he left, an hour or so later – deigning only to splash his face perfunctorily with water, rather than take Dean’s offer of a shower – Dean found himself saying goodbye at the door in a haze. He kissed Cas and knew he hadn’t brushed his teeth; he tasted like debauchery, plain and fucking simple, and as he closed the door behind him after watching him walk down the hallway, Dean felt something tighten in his gut; something worrying.

Of all the people in all the world, it had to be Cas who was so intense, so obfuscating; who had gone home with Dean and put a ripple of mess in his apartment, put come in his fucking _hair._

He turned back from the door, leant against it like a fucking dork in a romcom, and wrinkled his nose at the disaster zone his apartment had become in just a few short hours.

He drifted around for the rest of the day, collecting; Cas had left behind a few things; a pack of cigarettes, half-gone; a pair of boxer-briefs. His hair was around the sink in the bathroom; his fingerprints were outlined on the door to the balcony, palms spread wide where he’d pressed his hands, either side of Dean’s head.

Dean went out to them, drawn; he didn’t know if it was the hangover making him feel so ethereal or if it was just Cas.

He trailed a finger around the palm-prints on the window, flushing to remember himself, gaping at the sky like a fucking idiot; then he got the squeegee and the window-cleaner. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just for image's sake, dean's favourite is [this one](http://www.lelo.com/index.php?collectionName=femme-homme&groupName=BILLY)

Cas held in his hand the phallus; pathetic, it listed to one side, wobbling, mostly flaccid. With the base clutched in his hand, on his knees on Dean’s giant bed ( _“Is it a queen?” “It’s uh. They called it a Mega King in the store” “what the hell are you overcompensating for?”_ ), he looked down at his own naked crotch.

“It’s a good job I have a healthy ego, or I might have been intimidated.”

Dean rolled onto his side, burying his face in the pillow, feeling himself turn redder and redder. “You don’t have to go through it,” he said; _pleaded_ , really, but Cas continued to sort through the box, spreading Dean’s – he was realising now, _ample_ – collection of toys on the mattress.

“They’re interesting. I’ve only got one,” he said conversationally, leaning over to jab Dean in the calf with the jelloid tip of the dildo in his hand. “I never realised there were so many _types,”_ he dropped one – large, and black – on the bed, and it jolted to life, whirring, moving around on the mattress. Dean let out a moan of anguish.

“Cas, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Sorry,” Cas said easily, not really sorry because he was still laying out the toys around Dean like a strange, plastic forest of dick-shaped firs. “Which is your favourite?”

Dean peered at him out of the corner of his eye, through his fingers. “If I tell you, will you put them back where you found them?” This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his Saturday morning, but then, Cas tended to put a spin on anything he was involved with. After that first date there’d been takeout the night after, on the couch watching reruns of _ER;_ then Cas dropped by his building to surprise him with a lunch he’d picked up from a Mexican place around the corner, fatty and dripping with sauce and so delicious Dean made filthy noises around it, Cas shooting him wry glances all the while.

Then Cas met him after work, stayed over; sucked him off on the balcony in the morning again like it was just another facet of breakfast. He let Dean coerce him into a shower and jerk him off under the spray, Cas pulled against his chest, Dean’s cock fitted between the cheeks of his ass, and then left with a grin and a lingering kiss goodbye.

Cas texted him at odd hours of the morning, when they weren’t together; inane things, nonsensical. _Did u know the barnacle has a dick 40 times its size?_ Dean hadn’t.

And now, after a night of Cas folding Dean’s knees to his chest with the air of the most patient instructor in the world, fingering him until he sobbed something about getting the sheets messy and came, Cas laughing against his hip, fisting his cock and dripping come over Dean’s hole, voice high with mirth – they’re here. Naked in a bed full of dildos and Dean’s own personal masturbatory shame.

“Which one?” Cas said, void of judgement, totally interested; not that it made the thing any less mortifying. Dean breathed in deeply and then rolled onto his back. He reached out with his leg, toes searching until he found it, and then he nudged the dildo with his foot and pressed his face into the pillow again as Cas picked it up.

It’s not the biggest one, nor the most interesting looking; it’s sleek, dark blue with a white handle, and Cas pressed the buttons on it experimentally, humming his delight when he found the different settings.

“Show me how it works?”

Dean chanced a glance at him. “Fuck you.”

“Not really,” Cas shot back, grinning, and Dean rolled his eyes.

They hadn’t gone penetrative yet; Dean hadn’t asked. He wanted it, sure; Cas seemed to know him somehow, what he wants; how hard to pull his hair, how carefully to hold his hands. Knew that sometimes Dean liked being in control as well, and was just as enthusiastic to be pressed against the shower wall with Dean at his back as he was to sit astride Dean’s hips and bite his collarbones. Dean dreamed of him when he was not there; what it might be like to have Cas’ hand on the back of his neck as they fuck, what it might be like to fuck him. He had never so badly wanted to cover himself in a person; Cas was like a liquid, lithe and laughing, and Dean wanted to coat himself in a thin sheen of him; rub his fingers together and catch his scent.

Cas was still looking at him intently, and Dean swallowed. “You really want me to?”

Cas nodded fervently. Dean held out his hand for the toy, trying for confidence. He had never done this before; never had someone watch him, and even though Cas had put his fingers inside him, had seen him at his most naked, it seemed different somehow like this. He laughed nervously. “Can you, uh-” Cas threw him a bottle of lube before he could even finish the sentence, and Dean grinned at him. “Thanks.”

Cas just nodded, colour already rising in his face, lips slightly parted. He sat back, legs folded beneath him, and Dean could see his cock stirring between his legs, see the blood rush to it, the absent-minded way that Cas reached down to palm it.

He scooted up to the head of the bed, like he would if he was alone; spread his knees, and his hands shook as he uncapped the lube, squeezing a generous blob onto his fingers. He coated the shaft of the toy first, then reached between his legs and pushed his fingers inside himself, fast. He was used to this; opened up by Cas’ fingers from the night before, and at ease with his limits when it came to this toy, familiar and a favourite. He worked two fingers inside himself, stroked them inside himself just enough to feel heat start to course through him, and avoided eye contact until he withdrew his fingers and pressed the toy’s tip against his hole, and Cas muttered softly, “Look at me.”

Dean raised his eyes to Cas’ and his spine burned to see him; he was slumped where he sat, cock lolling heavily against his thigh, thick and hard; his hands twitched restlessly on the bed beside him, and his gaze flickered between Dean’s eyes and the press of the toy as Dean started to inch it, slowly, inside him.

He pushed it in, inch by inch, and once it was settled, its wider rim pressed flush against him, he leaned his head back. Cas was biting his lip, hands endlessly twitching, cock leaking down his thigh. He breathed in when Dean turned on the toy – the lowest setting, a gentle buzz, but it was the build that he liked about it most; how it made his muscles twitch, his hole clench around it, switching from one setting to the next. He was, to his own surprise, _enjoying_ the way Cas looked at him; the state of him, how wrecked he looked, felt like a compliment, and he even felt like putting on a show a little; he brushed a hand over his nipples, trailed it through his pubic hair to tug on his cock once, twice, before leaving it alone again and pushing the toy up yet another setting, a stronger vibration, a more definite pressure against his prostate. He breathed in sharply and Cas echoed it; a blurt of precome dripped onto his stomach.

“See?” he said softly, but Cas didn’t reply; usually so wordy, so full of jokes, Dean had expected a snarky comeback; but Cas looked ruined, hand trailing over his cock but never grasping, the other hand pushing into his hair, touching his neck, trailing over his collarbones. He didn’t reply.

Dean reached down to grasp the toy again and pulled it, slowly, out; the slick noise it made as it dragged embarrassed him, but Cas made a noise in tandem with it almost caused him to reconsider. Cas was breathing in through his nose, and when Dean tugged the dildo to its very last and then thrust it back in, hard, he sagged like he’d been physically struck, and said Dean’s name on the end of a gasp.

He put the dildo up another setting – thrust it in and out, slowly picking up pace, twisting the toy so it pressed perfectly inside him. Cas watched, rapt, and never touched himself but looked like he really fucking wanted to, swallowing hard when Dean cried out; only managing half Dean’s name when Dean hitched his leg up and held it in place with his free hand.

He could feel it, building – he pulled the dildo all the way out and pushed it back in, faster, harder; he let his leg go, body trembling, and reached back to grasp the headboard instead, arm thrown over his head, gripping as hard as he could.

When he came, he arched; the dildo, buried as deep inside him as it could go, slid out when he clenched around it, making the bed wet with lube as Dean swore and came, untouched, onto his own belly; his eyes screwed shut, hand gripping the headboard hard enough to hurt.

Cas crawled forward before he was even done, slurring their mouths together, groaning; he buried his hand in Dean’s hair, his tongue in Dean’s mouth, his body against Dean’s, getting his stomach wet. Still hard, his cock pressed between Dean’s legs, against his inner thigh, and Dean pulled him away by the back of his neck to look at him.

“Fuck me?” he breathed, quiet, and Cas surged against him hungrily again.

The moment was broken briefly by fumbling – Dean was too boneless, too sated, too excited to get Cas’ cock in him to be able to lean across the unjustifiably huge bed for a condom, so he conveyed to Cas where they were through a variety of mostly unhelpful hand signals. Thankfully, eventually Cas got the idea; but even then his hands were shaking, and he spilled lube all over the blankets, before he could get it on his hand, around his cock, get as close to Dean as possible and push in.

Cas pressed his forehead against Dean’s, and breathed out shakily. “It’s a good job you’ve already come, because I’m – this isn’t going to take much,” he laughed, and Dean shook his head.

“Cas,” he said pointedly, and Cas nodded as if he’d forgotten himself, braced his hands on the headboard behind Dean and thrust, properly, inside him.

He cried out as soon as he slid home; whether it was the build up, or what, Dean didn’t know; but Cas looked shaken, overwhelmed, and he moved his hands to grip Dean’s hips instead, slamming in and out of him, crying out brokenly against Dean’s cheek, their faces slurred together. Dean’s soft cock lay against his thigh, and he never knew if he preferred this over the build to orgasm; the soft, spiralling aftermath of pleasure; getting to see someone like this, Cas like this, wrecked and huffing breath against his cheek and asking permission to manoeuvre him so Dean’s back was flat against the bed, legs hooked over Cas’ hips, Cas thrusting relentlessly inside him.

He closed his eyes when he came; mouth open, head tipped back. Dean hooked his leg over to stop him from pulling out and leaned up so Cas could kiss him, the kiss more breath than mouth.

Cas pulled out eventually but stayed close; he let Dean roll him over and laughed when Dean jabbed him in the side with one of the other scattered toys. “Payback.” Dean muttered, grinning at him; Cas pulled him down, made him put his arms around him.

He said, “Do you have anything else to do today?”

“Other than sleep and fuck? Not really.”

Cas curled tighter against him. “Good.”


	3. Chapter 3

**He let Cas s** moke in the bedroom  _once,_ and after that it was a post-coital ritual Dean couldn’t bring himself to nip in the bud.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” he said one morning, cigarette perched between his fingers, and Cas laughed and palmed his belly, dragging a hand over the curve of his navel, yawning against his throat.

“ _Someone_ has to be,” he muttered dimly in reply, but reached up for the cigarette and pulled it out of his hand, stubbing it on the nightstand – Dean made an indignant noise. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“You do!”

“Yes, but I’m a hopeless waster with no strength of will. Don’t be like me.”

Dean huffed a laugh; reached down, and tangled his hand in Cas’ hair. “Hypocrite,” he swallowed. “My parents are visiting today.”

Cas rolled off him; pulled himself up onto one elbow.

Eight weeks after he and Dean first slept together, he was there more often than not; stayed over most nights, and sometimes didn’t leave at  _all,_ wearing the same clothes for three days and sleeping on Dean’s couch until he came home, leaving cigarette butts all over the coffee table like a chain-smoking housecat. He was, by all rights, disgusting. Dean was worried he was falling in love.

Cas peered down at him. “It’s a little early in our relationship, I guess, but – yeah, I’d love to meet them.”

Dean hadn’t been asking. He’d meant, to be honest,  _put some clothes on, maybe get out of my apartment so I can clean up after you before they fucking get here and think I’ve hired an older, fucking filthy rent boy_  – but looking at Cas, his reasonable tone, his willingness; he couldn’t really think of a reason to turn him down.

“Great. Cool.”

Bobby would hate him. Ellen would hate him worse. This was gonna be fucking  _amazing._  

\---

Cas dragged himself out of bed eventually, albeit with a little poking from Dean, of the un-fun, highschool variety. He slumped into a pair of Dean’s sweatpants – Dean carefully ignored him tightening the strings around his waist – and then took off out the door with his shirt half-on, promising Dean coffee when he came back. He did things like this; there was plenty of coffee in the fucking apartment, but with Cas that just wouldn’t wash. He left Dean sitting in his bed, utterly bewildered, unsure as to whether Cas would come back – sometimes he didn’t – and questioning whether Cas was concocting some elaborate ruse to avoid meeting Dean’s parents.

Regardless, he got out of bed. He threw open the balcony doors, the windows; he sprayed every inch of the apartment with air-freshener, desperate to avoid his mother’s pin-sharp nose – although what he’d do about the stink of _Cas,_ he had no fucking idea.

He was everywhere; the thick, halting scent of tobacco and fucking _patchouli_ hung on just about every corner in the fucking apartment, and Dean didn’t even want to consider what it smelt like to someone who hadn’t lived there for days. His bedroom stank of sex; there was a fucking ashtray by the bed. He gathered everything he could into a trash bag and heaved it down the chute outside his apartment, but even with the floors vacuumed, the place looking vaguely respectable, he couldn’t fight the idea that somehow his parents would just _know._

Cas had been gone “getting coffee” for three hours when Dean’s parents arrived, and he breathed – carefully, carefully – and swung open the door, grin plastered on. His dad looked him up and down.

“You’re losin’ weight, boy.” Dean grinned, but realised a compliment hadn’t been his father’s intent. He submitted to his Dad’s characteristically terse embrace – he didn’t really mean it – and also to his Mother’s hen-peck kisses on both cheeks. She held his face in her hands and looked at him.

“He’s right. You look skinny,” she muttered, frowning. Behind her, Cas poked his head around the doorway – Dean flinched to close the door on him, then thought maybe it would be an overreaction. His eyes met Cas’, and Cas twitched his hands, four cups resting on them in a cardboard nest.

“Hello,” he said to Bobby and Ellen, who glanced at him and then back at Dean. “I didn’t know how you take your coffee, so I just got black.” There was a pause, overlong. Dean stepped out of his Mom’s grasp and reached for Cas’ shoulder, then thought better of it.

“This is Cas. He’s, uh,” he paused, “Hey, Cas.”

Cas handed him the coffee brusquely and held out his hand to Bobby and Ellen, to shake. “Hey.”

\---

Cas sat quietly at the breakfast bar, opposite Dean’s parents, while the two of them exchanged looks with each other, with Dean, with Cas in turn. Bobby looked disgruntled already, and Cas hadn’t even done anything yet; Ellen, the more reasonable, was interrogating him about his job.

“You teach yoga?”

Cas nodded over the rim of his coffee cup. Ellen frowned.

“That pay the bills?”

Dean choked from behind Cas, leaning against the counter as if somehow that would remove him from this awful, categorically _mortifying_ scene. Cas, to his credit, didn’t really react. His parents, in seventies jean-jackets and plaid, respectively, looked odd and misshapen in this place, perhaps even more than Cas did; Dean’s mom had hung on tight to her bellbottom jeans and was never letting go, no matter how much her son and daughter berated her; Bobby just hated malls.

“Yes,” Cas replied, and drank more of his coffee.

Silence reigned. Dean asked everyone if they wanted another drink, and was utterly ignored. Ellen sniffed the air, raising her head, and said “Has someone been _smoking_ in here?”

Cas replied, “Yes.”

Things didn’t get much better after that.

\---

“You called my dad a prick,” Dean said huffily after his parents had left and Cas – miraculously – remained on this mortal plane. Cas shrugged.

“He was arguing with me about gun law.”

“He’s wearing a plaid shirt, could you not tell what his opinion was gonna be?”

Cas shrugged again, ducked into the fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine and nudged Dean in the hip with it while bending to kiss his cheek. “I don’t think you’d like me if your parents loved me.”

“I think I’d find it a little easier,” Dean mumbled, but had to admit it hadn’t been as bad as he thought. Cas was such a mess – physically and, in his dad’s opinion, mentally – that it made Dean look even more successful. Ellen had hugged him extra tight on her way out, and muttered “Keep workin’ hard, honey,” into his ear. Dean promised her he would.

With the doors to the balcony still open, blowing cool night air into the apartment, detritus of coffee and plates laying around, Dean leaned against the counter and sighed. He raised his head – Cas was out there, smiling at him from across the room. Leaning against the doorway like he had anything to be proud about after the way he behaved.

Dean walked across the room, past him, out onto the balcony to lean on the railing without a word. He huffed when Cas slid up behind him and kissed his cheek, arms wrapping around Dean’s chest, beneath his armpits, neck of the wine bottle still held in his hand. He could feel Cas smiling on the side of his face.

“Sorry. I should have been nicer.”

“S’not like I expected any less.”

“Are we together?” Cas said, pushing the wine bottle up between them to rest the rim of it on Dean’s lower lip. Dean squirmed.

“Fuck, don’t do that, you’ll chip my fucking teeth.” He ignored the question.

Cas stopped, laughing. He kissed Dean’s shoulder through his shirt. “Lemme make it up to you,” he said softly, and Dean turned his head to try and look at him, but Cas ducked away, over to his other shoulder, free hand kneading Dean’s belly. He thrust the bottle into Dean’s hand. “Hold this.” Then he was kissing Dean’s lower back, pulling at Dean’s belt – then he was on his knees and Dean’s fucking ass and cock and balls were bared to the world from a seventeenth-floor balcony.

“The fuck are you doing?” He turned around, but Cas grasped his hips, held him still. Kissed one of his cheeks in the most condescending way Dean had ever felt. “Cas,” But Dean leaned into it when Cas kissed the undercurve of his ass, kissed his inner thigh, pushing Dean’s legs apart with his head, with suggestion alone, nose sharp against the fleshier parts of his skin.

“You okay with this?”

“Depends what you’re doing,” Dean replied shakily, still trying to look down at him, hips pressed against the railing, the metal cold, barest inch from his dick. He could only see the top of Cas’ head; thick thatch of dark hair, and feel Cas enthusiastically pushing his legs further and further apart, making him flush red. The tails of his shirt hung untucked, pants wrapped around his ankles and stretched as far as possible between them. Cas let go of his hips and spread Dean’s ass with his hands; Dean could feel the hot bloom of his breath against his hole, a rhythm like the last moments before a kiss. Intimate; anticipatory. Cas’ lips were parted, inches from the core of him, and by the time Cas finally closed the gap, sealing his mouth over that furl, tongue a searing press, Dean was leaning on his forearms on the railing, pushing back against his face, flushing red from head to fucking toe.

“Jesus,” he muttered into his own arm, conscious of the fact that if anyone – _anyone –_ was looking out of their window right now they could easily see him, starched white shirt hanging free around his hips, tie askew, Cas’ face buried in his ass.

Cas made a noise, indulgent, loud even over the sounds of him sucking at Dean’s flesh. A low groan; like he was eating something fucking amazing, rather than just _Dean._ Dean could feel him breathing fast through his nose, air huffing out over the sensitive flesh, punctuated by sweeps of tongue. He reached back with a hand and grasped the back of Cas’ head, pushing him closer, making him move his mouth wider, suck harder, scrape with his teeth. Cas half-laughed, half-moaned in response.

“Cas,” he babbled, and Cas lifted his head, but not far enough away that Dean couldn’t still feel him. “Cas, fuck me, please,” He couldn’t see Cas, didn’t know if he was laughing or speaking when he opened his mouth, and Dean’s cock was fully hard now, undeterred by the cold air, the railing; Cas’ hand came up and around to skim through the hair above his crotch, tangling gently in the trimmed-short trail from his navel to the base of him; but he didn’t touch Dean’s cock.

He heard, vaguely, from somewhere beyond the tunnel he was in, cock leaking all over itself, clear beads dribbling into his hair, over Cas’ hand, down his thighs; he heard Cas mutter, “ _Please.”_ Incredulously – and then felt him open his mouth, and his tongue push beyond Dean’s rim.

He cried out, choked, and thought the whole city must hear; wind whipping past his face, through his hair; his voice dropping from his throat and into the endless street-lit void below. Cas’ firm hand found the space below his ass, thumb pressing between his legs, brushing the hair there back and forth. His hand continued its restless kneading, almost touching, but never quite.

Dean bit back a yell when Cas’ hand gripped his ass harder, moving up; Cas pushed his thumb inside Dean’s hole, licking around it, and Dean was fucking _trembling_ by then, begging to get fucked, to get something, _anything_ more than the soft, wet movement of Cas’ tongue in and around his hole; than one dry press of a thumb inside him.

Cas drew the thumb in and out; just a little, just enough for him to really feel it, and his fingers tightened on Dean’s belly when Dean bit back another shout. He was getting fucking _wet,_ making Cas’ fingers filthy-sticky, and his legs trembled, the backs of his knees sweated in the cold air, drying instantly. Cas pushed his hand up Dean’s shirt; slid his fingers over the lines of his stomach, up his chest, and his wet fingertips paused over Dean’s nipple, considering. Dean mumbled something – he doubted it was in any human language – and then Cas’ thumb, slick with Dean’s own fluid, swept gracelessly over the sensitive flesh.

It punched out of him; he yelled, maybe he screamed; Cas kept thumbing at his nipple, kept licking him, making him tremble; but it was softer, and he pulled back every now and then to mutter Dean’s name; to kiss him, hard, almost chaste, against his inner thigh.

He sagged against the cold metal railing and Cas stayed where he was, forehead pressed against the back of Dean’s leg, alternately kissing Dean’s lower body and keening, fist working fast between his own legs. He shook; the spatter of come between Dean’s legs came as no surprise, and Cas’ other hand was wet then too, leaving a messy quasi-handprint against Dean’s hip, when he palmed it.

Cas stood to join him eventually, and wrapped his arms around Dean again, Dean’s pants settled loosely around his hips, belt still undone.

“Don’t you dare kiss me,” Dean muttered, but Cas did anyway. “I think I came over the railing,” Dean muttered after a moment of silence, “Do you think it could’ve gone on someone’s head?” and Cas laughed so hard into his shoulder that the only way Dean could shut him up was to turn against the railing, pull Cas’ face towards him, pull the most disgusted expression he could muster, and kiss him until he went (almost) silent. 


End file.
